


A Grammar

by confusedkayt



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, angsty smut, hurt/comfort of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words brought them together and tore them apart again and again and again.  A new closeness offers the opportunity to create a new grammar, but the poetry of the body can't reveal all the workings of the mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grammar

It is cold, cold enough to wake him from his shallow sleep. The day’s tension, amorphous and ominous, has not dissolved under cover of darkness. It seems it has grown worse. Will’s dear face is tense even in sleep, his body huddled in on itself, arms tight across his own middle, small and hunched and far from Hannibal.

There is no clear cause. It was just a day, like any other. He has checked and checked and checked again but it is not a case of old hurts echoing in anniversary. The phone did not ring. The dogs are well enough, their meals composed of dishes Will has eaten before with every evidence of enjoyment. And yet. And yet. A terrible fog has swallowed Will up and with him their household, and now it chases behind his eyes.

It is a delicate decision. Often it is better to let him sleep. His wonderful mind refuses rest too often, and the battles fought within it are often worse if deferred. But now his breaths are rapid, his eyes in motion behind their lids. The working of his mouth is decisive. Better to wake him.

Gently, gently. Fingers in his hair, thumb pressed to the notch of his jaw. Pressure and motion. It takes very little time and his eyes shudder open, too liquid. His throat works and his lips press tighter. This is no time for words, then.

There is another language Hannibal knows. It is the work of a moment to position himself over Will, an offering. “Yes?” and Will swallows again, pushes his face harder into Hannibal’s hand. It’s answer enough. More, when he rolls onto his back and looses his arms, though his hands are still clenched.

Soon enough, they are clenched on Hannibal’s shoulders. He settles his weight on his elbows, lowering down until he is flush against Will’s body but not pressing it, not yet. It is encouraging that it is Will who surges forward to take the first kiss, though his mouth is hard, too frantic, inelegant, a wordless S.O.S. It takes time, four kisses, five, six, seven before they are in conversation. Even so, Will is rigid beneath him and his hands clench and release, clench and release, and do not move otherwise.

There are nights where he is permitted to lose himself, but tonight he must speak carefully. He moves his hand just so, pressing between Will’s ribs in just the right manner. One leg is slotted between Will’s, just enough pressure that he can rock and return, rock and return, and Will unfurls beneath him, though not near enough. He fits his mouth against Will’s rushing pulse, gentle kisses and just a hint of teeth near the edge of his jaw. That earns a great sigh, and a shudder. Will is easier still beneath him. Good.

It is time, now, to move his mouth and his body down Will’s. He begins the slide, but Will’s hands slide, too, and clamp down on his biceps. Ah. “Just like this, then,” he murmurs, and takes Will’s sensitive right earlobe between his teeth to tug just as he likes.

But Will, mercurial, wonderful Will, huffs his exasperation and thrashes against him. Hannibal makes to pull away, but he has only moved to push his shorts down and now he is clutching and pulling Hannibal heavy against him. “Just like this,” he repeats, the wrong ragged rasp in his voice.

Hannibal will replace it with the right one. Just like this. Tonight he is heavy and close and meant to overwhelm. His hands know what to do, and his mouth, and his body. He is allowed to give himself up to it after all, the smell and the motion and Will’s wet whimpering breaths, the hot press between them. Will’s eyes catch his and hold, close enough to blur, and his fingers wrench at Hannibal’s hair and draw his orgasm from him. His whole weight falls for moments only but Will is clutching him closer with arms and legs and Hannibal rolls his hips and bathes in the too-rich feeling of it, the requisite discomfort of gluttony in this way before his service is done. He holds Will’s roiling gaze until that too is stolen from him in the throws of Will’s completion. He is beautiful with it, too beautiful for words or pen or even music.

It is an effort to release him, to allow Will to roll away, on his side, inches and miles between them. It is an effort not to take him up and press and press until Will Graham is safe, safe inside behind his ribs. It will be enough to cup a hand over the ridged scars on his shoulder, too hot and too taut. It is enough that Will takes care to touch his hand with his own fingers, though he has crossed his arms to hold himself again.

It is not a time for words, as much as he’d like them. He’s hungry, still, to know what chases behind Will’s eyes. Perhaps tomorrow it will be possible. It is enough, now, that comfort has been given and received in this other grammar between them. It is enough. It is.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by the office manager's heavy margarita pours. I meant to update my longer piece, but sometimes the heart wants what it wants and what it wants is, apparently, angsty frottage. I'd love your thoughts on how the Hannibal POV worked for you - I feel like maybe it was too... linear for him, but I figured it was late at night and he had pressing concerns. :D I'd love to talk about anything and everything in the comments if you have any thoughts! :D


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